


Wrong

by skadi_zlata



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Emotional Manipulation, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-23
Updated: 2011-05-23
Packaged: 2017-10-19 17:30:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/203353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skadi_zlata/pseuds/skadi_zlata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John knows that Sherlock is arrogant, heartless, selfish… and never misses an opportunity to remind him of this emotional ignorance. What can Sherlock possibly do to stop it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrong

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to my beta mygoldenbuttons. It's always good to have another pair of eyes (not in a microwave)!

Coming home after a solved case could be pleasant. Brilliantly solved, to be precise. But no praises from John this time.

It’s the same never ending story.

You are heartless, you don’t care about other people…

The investigation wasn’t particularly interesting, though its last part – the arrest – turned to be almost exiting. It seemed pretty risky to take a leap from one balcony to another, but Sherlock couldn’t just stand there and wait, while Lestrade’s crew was planning to break the door, clumsy and ineffective, as always, completely ignoring his assumption that the two abductors, warned by the tremendous noise, would probably hold the kidnapped woman as a hostage.

He landed most unfortunately, crashing against the railing in a desperate grasp, but arrived just in time.

Lestrade must be quite happy now, for the case is closed. That woman with silly frightened eyes must be happy too, though still transfixed with shock after the unexpected rescue operation. Even Sherlock himself is close to post-adrenaline euphoria for a while, satisfied with his own expedient interference, trying to ignore the fact that his whole right side aches like hell.

No broken ribs, but a nasty bruise, that’s for sure, and a few scratches. He never tells John about such inevitable damage when they are on a case. John seems to believe that he is invulnerable, like a movie hero or a supernatural creature, which is flattering.

And it’s not so bad this time, nothing to be upset about anyway.

It could be a perfect evening. Only John had to spoil everything. Again.

Sherlock understands the tendency. It’s not his actions but his words that trigger off John’s irritation. Some unimportant remarks about this woman, about the stupid carelessness that makes her a perfect victim – and John is ready to burst of just anger.

How can you be so merciless, unsympathetic, insensitive?

Oh, for God’s sake! You are not the only one to say that. I’m a freak, I’m a monster, and why do you mess with me if you don’t like it?!

And here they are, both sullen and subdued, in a midnight cab. John looks away, but Sherlock knows what thoughts cross his mind – they are not so easy to get rid of.

As Sherlock pays the taxi driver, John slides out and doesn’t even wait for him. Fine. Sherlock goes straight to his own room, leaving John to muddle about in the kitchen, making tea and searching the fridge. These domestic sounds, quiet and ordinary, usually are comforting and soporific, but not now.

It’s time to take off the jacket and the shirt, to examine new marks on the smooth marble skin. There is always something. A graze. A laceration. A bruise this time. At least he can feel physical pain, even if he is incapable of emotional agony. Is self-destruction a typical human feature, by the way?

He puts on a grey t-shirt and cotton pyjama trousers, flings himself on the bed and rolls to face the window, arms cradling the pillow. He has some time – not much, though, before John comes to settle things down. He is the one who can’t keep emotions bottled up, he must share them, dark and painful as they are.

No miscalculations – in a minute Sherlock hears John’s footsteps and then a knock at his door. John comes in, without an invitation or permission. Just like friends do. Sherlock still lies in bed, curled into a ball, wrapped in the blanket, and doesn’t even look at him.

“Sherlock, I’m sorry.”

He stands there and waits and hopes it’s enough.

“I admit I was wrong. You saved her, you risked your life, no matter what you said afterwards… I shouldn’t have talked to you like that, I have no rights to judge you… Sherlock?”

Some response needed. Sherlock should appreciate that John takes the first step. It’s not so easy for him to make speeches. Formal apologies must be accepted, and Sherlock murmurs: “I’m glad to hear that.”

These words make John slightly irritated again.

“Sherlock, don’t be resentful, look at me, let’s talk it over. Yes, I was wrong, happy now? I’m serious, look at me.”

Well, John, if you wish… What do you see? Pale eyes, red-rimmed by now. A single tear.

“Are you crying?!”

John is so confused that Sherlock pardons the obvious statement.

He looks at John almost with a challenge – yes, and now what? Do you think it’s unmanly?

“Sherlock…” John starts to mumble something, totally embarrassed, even frightened, and it’s so agonizingly awkward that Sherlock stops him firmly: “If you want to apologize once more, just don’t. Because you were right. You call me a monster – and I _am_ a monster. You say that I don’t feel anything – and I really don’t. But what if I want to? What can I do, how can I make myself normal? There is something wrong with me, everyone can see that, and I’m used to it, I just ignore them when they say: “Oh, you are heartless”. But it’s… unbearable… to be so revolting to _you_.”

He turns away, squeezing his eyes shut. Waiting.

A few steps forward.

“John,” Sherlock’s voice is slightly hoarse, it almost breaks, “I don’t need apologies, maybe I don’t even deserve them. But… if you have compassion for others, and I know you do, can you save some of it for me?”

The bed shifts a little under John’s weight. Somewhat tentatively, hesitantly Sherlock reaches out, and the next moment they are holding onto each other. It’s so tempting to relax into this embrace, to feel John’s pounding heartbeat – and nothing more, but Sherlock winces involuntarily when John squeezes his sore ribs too hard. John is observant enough to notice that. He starts back and rolls up Sherlock’s t-shirt before he can make any protesting noises.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” There is a hint of guilt in John’s voice, surely he blames himself for being so inattentive as he stares at the massive bruise – and his fingers, gentle and reassuring, trace the damage. “I’m a doctor, and you should…” Sherlock interrupts him, though this role play “doctor/patient”, with taking his clothes off, might be interesting in a way he never thought of before: “It can wait, John, nothing serious, really. Could you… just hold me like you did?”

John gives in with a sigh, which means “you are childish”, but surely he enjoys this strange moment of tenderness too. He is warm and funny, humming something so soothingly as if he is cradling a baby…

People are predictable. When you show them your weaknesses and your anguish, they tend to assume you are quite human. Till your further behavior shows that this false breakdown doesn’t really prove anything.

How can a former soldier be so sentimental? Doesn’t he know that Sherlock can force some tears whenever he wants?

…It’s a blessing that he doesn’t.

Let him be wrong for a while, let him think you are not a wicked heartless creature, Sherlock repeats to himself as a prayer. He is desperate for a temporary illusion of ordinary human relationships – friendship… or love maybe?

Sometimes you need compassion, and comfort, and tenderness, even if you know that you are a monster.


End file.
